hoped she wasn’t offended. He would ask her, eventually.
The boy set the empty container of food down and stretched out,
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using Scout for a pillow. The dog licked Jesse’s forehead and his ears, and Jesse laughed. Evelina said she needed to use the bathroom, then
disappeared down the ladder to Lewis’s apartment.
“How did you get the dog up here?” Jesse asked, watching his
mother negotiate the ladder.
“It was high comedy,” said Lewis, thinking of his hands on
Evelina’s, how they had lifted the dog together, her body against his.
Lewis stacked the containers and gathered the chopsticks, nap-
kins, and empty bottles of beer into a plastic bag. Scout’s tail was
wagging idly. Jesse rolled to his side so that he was facing the dog and ran his hands through his fur.
“Oh,” said Jesse. The boy took his hands off the dog and became
very still.
The boy didn’t say anything. It occurred to Lewis that if Jesse had
met Vera in the woods that day—and had been in her car—he would
have also met Scout. It was important to be delicate. He didn’t know
whether to say anything or not. Did the boy recognize the dog? Did
the boy recognize him?
The boy’s eyes filled with tears and Lewis couldn’t ignore it. It
must be horrible for Jesse to have been the last person to see Vera
alive. And then to have to see her face everywhere, in the newspaper, on the news. Lewis hadn’t considered it until now—he had thought
only of Denny. Sometimes Lewis thought of himself as the most per-
ceptive, empathetic person in the world—because of his father—but
in moments like this, when he hadn’t considered something as obvi-
ous as the little boy’s relationship to the dead woman, he realized he was still so young and unwise.
“Are you okay?” he asked Jesse. He thought of the day in Evelina’s
house, when he had asked the boy the same thing.
“Fine.” Jesse rubbed at his eyes. The boy was a funny-looking lit-
tle thing. Big brown eyes. A delicate face. Sharp features. A sweet
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little puppet version of his father. He couldn’t tell whether Jesse was okay or not. There was an intensity to him that Lewis hadn’t seen in
a child before. It reminded him of his own childhood, the constant
tension in his shoulders, the way he felt that if someone bumped into him, he would shatter.
“You doing all right?” he asked again. “I know this year has been
hard for you.”
The boy looked at the sky, to stop his tears from falling. “Yes,” he
said. “Yes, I am okay.”
“If you need to talk—I—” His heart was pounding. What was
he supposed to say? Should he let the boy know that he knew who he
was? Should he let the boy know he could tell he was in pain? That
he had felt pain as a boy, too?
“I’m okay,” said the boy. “I remember this dog, that’s all. I met
this dog before.”
“I know,” said Lewis.
“You do?”
“I’m a police officer,” Lewis said. “I’ve spoken to you before.”
The boy looked at him. He was trying to place him, figure it out.
Finally, he nodded, remembering. He started to back away from
Lewis, as though he were going to run.
“It’s okay,” said Lewis. “I’m just asking if you’re all right.”
“I’m okay.”
“We found her, Jesse, you probably heard that already. She
drowned.”
“We watched it on the news, my mom and me.”
“You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
“Okay,” said the boy. He reached for the dog and petted him
again. “I like this dog.”
“I do too.”
“I’m happy to see him again,” the boy said.
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They sat for a while, petting the dog. Lewis showed Jesse that
Scout liked his belly rubbed, and the backs of his ears, and under his chin. He did not like to have his tail touched, or his paws. A couple of stars were now visible, and Jesse pointed them out to Scout.
“How’s your little brother?” Lewis asked. He remembered the
bruises on the little boy’s face. The shock of it. How awful it was
to see.
“He’s with our dad.”
“You see your dad much these days?”
Jesse gave Lewis a cold, hard stare. “No.”
“Okay, okay.” Lewis laughed, but Jesse was stone-faced, petting the
dog in long rhythmic strokes.
“Jesse?” It was Evelina, back on the roof. “You okay?”
“I’m getting cold,” said Jesse. He stood and grabbed the plastic bag
of trash and disappeared down the small opening where his mother
had just been.
When the boy was out of earshot, Evelina fixed Lewis with an
inquisitive look.
“It’s the dog,” he said to her. “He recognized Scout.”
“Oh,” said Evelina. “I didn’t think about that.”
“I told him who I was. Listen, maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”
“You’re probably right,” she said.
Still, he went to her, took her in his arms.
“No,” she said. “I want to do this,” and then she was kissing him,
kissing him in a way that made him think she wanted him to make
love to her, right now, on this rooftop. He ran his hands down her
back and started to hitch up her dress. But, no, that was too much,
that was taking it too far.
“Stop,” she said. “Let’s be reasonable.”
“Evelina. If it’s too much, with Jesse—”
“No,” she said. “I want to see you again.”
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——
And then she was gone. He stayed on the rooftop until the sky was
dark, Scout by his side. He hoped it was okay what he had done. He
wanted to see her again. How else was he supposed to exist in this
small town, with only Denny for a friend?
In a parallel universe, he would be calling his father right now,
telling him he’d met a woman named Evelina and that was why he
was calling so late. Describing her to his father, describing the boy, describing the evening. His father had the raspy voice of an old man, even though he was only in his fifties. Lewis had called his father
every day after he moved to Whale Bay. He didn’t know anyone else
his age who did that, and although he couldn’t articulate precisely
why, it seemed like something to hide. Maybe this would be the year
he would work up the courage to call his uncle, his father’s brother, and finally crack the code, solve the mystery, of why his father had
been the way he was.
His father walked three miles a day. He lived in a little rancher
outside town, with access to a forest trail. Lewis had explored every inch of that surrounding forest as a child. In the summer it buzzed
with cicadas. His father walked with a net over his face, swatting
his arms, his knee socks pulled up so mosquitoes wouldn’t bite his ankles.
It seemed to Lewis that there was a huge swath of the population
like his father: retired, widowed men or women living alone, with
hardly any friends to speak of, who did things like roam the woods.
Introverted, strange human beings. His father was a birdwatcher. A
twig of a man in a button-down shirt and ill-fitting shorts, a baseball cap that had long ago faded from red to pink. Not much of a talker.
Why hadn’t anyone ever spoken to him about his father when he
was a boy? Surely his teachers would have noticed the strange man
who lived alone in the woods with his son—surely they would have
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known about Lewis’s mother’s death. Didn’t it occur to anyone to
check on the family? To make sure everything was okay? Didn’t any-
one notice that Lewis had packed his own lunches from the age of
six? A handful of crackers stuffed into his backpack, or sometimes
nothing at all? Didn’t anyone notice the look of strain on Lewis’s face?
Didn’t anyone notice that a child should not be so nervous, so quiet?
But what was anyone supposed to do? His father was not abu-
sive. If someone had come to the house, they might have found it a
little downtrodden, a little depressing. Nothing extraordinary. It
would have taken someone spying on his family—bugging the
house—to see his father waking Lewis up in the night, turning on
the bedside lamp and saying, I can’t go on, I’m sorry, Lewis, but I can’t do this anymore, it’s too hard, I’m so sorry that I have failed you. Biting his fingernails as he spoke. It would have taken someone spying on
them to hear the little boy beg his father in the middle of the night to live a little longer, to stay a little while, come on, we’ll go birding tomorrow, I’ll stay home from school.
How to articulate the panic he felt when his father didn’t pick up
the phone on those initial nights after he had moved to Whale Bay?
His hands shook, his pulse quickened, he found himself on his hands
and knees, scrubbing the grout of the linoleum floor, anything to pass the time. An hour passed and then he would call again.
“Lewis,” his father said, “I was out walking.”
The relief that washed over him like a wave. They talked about
the things they always talked about. The last time they talked, they
talked for an hour.
“Okay, then,” Lewis said, something forming in the pit of his
stomach, his foot tapping anxiously on the floor.
“Yes, okay then, Lewis,” said his father.
“It’s getting late.”
“It is, yeah.”
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“Okay, then,” said Lewis.
“Okay,” said his father.
“So, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
And then the sound of his father saying goodbye, goodbye, my
son, goodbye, quieter and quieter, as Lewis took the phone away
from his ear and set it in its cradle. Now, on the roof of his apart-
ment, he wondered how long his father might have stood there, on
that last evening, the phone still in his hand though the line had gone dead, saying goodbye.
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C h a p t e r T w e n t y - T w o
Denny
A freak heat wave in April. There was no wind. His calves itched
and he ran his nails over his pale dry skin until his legs were
covered in angry red lines. Really, who was he kidding. If he was
honest, really honest, he hated Vera a little bit. All her perfect, prim achievement. Her efficiency. Her healthfulness. Practicality. Snobbery.
Superiority. Sometimes he wanted to buy a rotisserie chicken and eat
the whole thing on the floor with his hands. And so he would! He
hobbled to the car, gracelessly steered it to the grocery store, the
gas light blinking frantically, bought a herbed chicken, a carton of
milk, and a box of Corn Pops—Corn Pops!—returned home, sat on
the floor, and sucked clean the bones. He poured the contents of the
cereal box into a mixing bowl, drowned them in milk, and sat in
the middle of his unmade bed, the lights off. He ate until he felt his bowels about to move, then took the cereal with him into the bathroom. He was reverting to a Neanderthal! He would gut a boar and
wear its pelt. He stuck his fingers down his throat until he brought the whole wretched mess up, then stood there sputtering, drool and vomit
on his shirt, and prayed that Lewis would return soon with his dog.
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——
“You doing okay?” said Lewis.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Denny said. Scout was on his belly, wiggling
and licking Denny’s hands. The dog nosed around, then hopped up
on the couch and sat staring at the men, his tongue hanging out of
his mouth.
“You sure, Denny?” said Lewis.
“I am well! I am fabulous!” He threw out his arms and spun
around the room. “Never been better!”
“I’m sorry,” said Lewis. “I meant—”
“There’s one moment,” Denny said, “when I first wake up but
before I’m really awake—when I feel fine, rested. Sometimes it lasts
long enough that I can fall asleep again, get another two or three hours.”
“Okay,” said Lewis. He sat on the couch and began to pet Scout.
“There’s the whiteness of the room, the whiteness of the sheets.”
“Okay—”
“I’m not sure my eyes are even open. I could still be dreaming. And
sometimes my body isn’t there at all. But then I remember. I remem-
ber that she is dead. I get nothing but that small moment now.”
“I—”
“It is the only good part of the day.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lewis. “I don’t think any of us know what to
make of death.”
“All I want,” Denny said, “is one more moment with her. I want
to close my eyes and when I open them, I want her here.”
“I know you do,” said Lewis.
“If we’d had a child, maybe—”
Denny closed his eyes and the men were silent. How could he
possibly tell his friend how bad he felt? Should he say it? Should
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his mouth, but also the sweetness of the Corn Pops, and bits of rose-
mary stuck in his teeth. His friends had mostly deserted him. Who
would want to be around him anyway? He was so deeply, so hid-
eously sad. Surely no one else could carry around such sadness; surely people did.
Lewis was stroking Scout. He watched Lewis get up and walk into
the kitchen, refill the water dish, and scoop a cupful of kibble
into Scout’s bowl. He was such a good person—Lewis. Well, not
entirely good. Lewis had broken the news to him that he had gone on
a date with Evelina. It hadn’t been a pleasant conversation a
t first. But he had to accept it, didn’t he, even though it felt like a betrayal. He needed Lewis in his life. And didn’t everyone have the right to move
on and be happy?
I’m happy for you, Denny had said, but he wasn’t.
Now, Denny watched Lewis as he moved the coffee mugs and
plates and cutlery from the countertops into the sink, and filled it
with soapy water. If Lewis didn’t come by, would he even remember
to feed Scout?
“You know,” said Denny, the sadness inside of him threatening
to open up and consume him, a kind he had never felt before, “it is
getting awfully hard for me to be a dog dad.”
“Don’t say that,” said Lewis. “Scout loves you. You’re a team.”
Lewis walked back into the living room and started straightening
it up, too—magazines put back on the coffee table, plates and glasses removed and set into the soapy water of the kitchen sink.
“I can’t even walk him,” Denny called out, Lewis invisible to him.
He heard the sound of a trash bag being heaved out the back door.
“I’m happy to keep doing this, Denny,” Lewis said, reappearing in
the doorway. “It’s no trouble.”
“It’d be less trouble if Scout lived with you. Think about it.” Denny bent down, his hands curled into claws because they were hurting him, Celo_9780735235823_4p_all_r1.indd 169
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and with a grunt he eased himself on the floor beside Scout. “That
isn’t to say I don’t love you,” Denny said to Scout. “I love you with all my heart.”
“He knows,” said Lewis. “Now, stop.”
Good god, he was real y blubbery, drooling even, from sorrow.
He looked up at Lewis. He wanted Lewis to see it—to see what grief
could do to a person. To see that he was undone. Denny felt the
tears coming strong now, but he fought them this time. His sorrow
was turning into anger, self-pity, and shame. “We have a connection,”
said Denny. “Me and that boy.”
“What are you talking about? What connection?”
“He was the last person to see her alive.”
“It will get better,” said Lewis.
“Stop saying that. I’m sick of you saying that.”
“I don’t know what else to say,” said Lewis. “I’m sorry.”
“I want to talk to him. I have no one left. I want to talk to him
about Vera.”
“Denny.”
“What?”
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